


(in)human touch

by thedevilchicken



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Chains, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Moving On, Post-Canon, Roleplay, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Trust, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Clark really didn't go looking for this. Bruce possibly did.





	(in)human touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/gifts).



Clark really didn't go looking for this. 

Bruce is in chains that he can't escape from and Clark knows he can't because he welded them around his wrists himself. He did it with his eyes, because he knew Bruce would like it - maybe he should hate how Bruce gets off on _what_ he is more than _who_ sometimes, but the fact is he doesn't hate it. He thinks maybe that's because with Bruce, he doesn't feel at all like he has to pretend. 

With Bruce, there's no need to act like the saucepan on the stove is too hot for him to lift bare-handed or that the knife he's chopping onions with miraculously missed his finger and that's why it didn't cut him when he slipped. There's no need to pretend he has to walk up the stairs when it's just a short hop for him to the second floor landing and he doesn't even spill the tea along the way. There's no need to act like he can't heat the tea back up if it gets cold or chill it down to ice so quickly it'd probably crack the china, but they both know he wouldn't do that. Most likely that's because Alfred would give him one of those long-suffering kinds of looks that Clark thinks used to be reserved for Bruce, or at least they had been for some time before he got there. Clark's been living with the two of them a while now. He gets the looks now, too.

He doesn't have to pretend with Bruce, but sometimes he does it anyway. It's not that he pretends he's human, though; sometimes he pretends he's really, really not. 

Clark knows his eyes are smouldering. They're glowing red like coals in a grate and lighting up parts of his face from all the way inside till it almost looks like he's just skin stretched over living lava, and Bruce watches him as he moves, his long red cape swishing in the air around his calves. Bruce kept the suit while he was gone and fixed it up, and Clark remembers seeing it there in the cave under the manor, how he couldn't even stand to look at it for the first few weeks, how he couldn't bear to think about putting it on again, and maybe not ever. He's wearing it now. There's a screwball logic to why he started wearing it that really makes no sense anyplace except inside his head, but he guesses anyway it's the kind of thing that's better left unsaid. 

Clark didn't go looking for this. He just kind of stumbled across it one night without realising what he was getting himself into, without really paying close enough attention, because he could hear noises in Bruce's room when Bruce would've normally been gone almost all night. So he went to the door and he looked inside and there was Bruce, on his knees on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. And there was a guy with him, tall and built with dark hair and light eyes, in the kind of high-quality Superman costume someone like Bruce Wayne could definitely afford to buy in for such an occasion. The guy was in half of the costume, at least: he was bare from the waist down and he slapped Bruce hard across the face with one hand then he nudged Bruce's lips with the tip of his cock till he opened up his mouth. He shoved it in. Bruce gagged on it, but the guy in the suit had his hand in Bruce's hair; he didn't let him pull away. Clark wasn't sure if it looked like he wanted to or not.

Honestly, even at the time he knew he shouldn't've been watching, but he just couldn't make himself stop. His eyes were on the fingers twisted up tight in Bruce's hair, on Bruce's lips stretched around the girth of that thick cock, on the way his chest rose and fell as the guy in the suit flexed his hips and fucked his mouth. He could see the line of Bruce's spine in the mirror hanging on the wall behind him and his eyes swept down it, over hard, taut muscle to the curve of his ass and his cuffed hands, steel gleaming in the low light from the lamp across the room. He could hear the sounds Bruce made, uncomfortable sounds as the guy forced his cock as deep into Bruce's throat as he could, again and again, but when his eyes strayed down, Bruce's own cock was hard between his thighs. Bruce wanted this. Of course Bruce wanted this - if he hadn't, he could've gotten out of those cuffs in a flash. It wasn't like Clark hadn't seen him do that before. He practiced sometimes, down in the cave; he had a collection of cuffs he used, and Clark hadn't seem him struggle much with any of them.

"Is your friend joining us or is he just here to watch?" the guy in the Superman suit asked, gesturing in Clark's direction, and Bruce looked at him around a mouthful of cock. Their eyes met, just for a second, before Clark turned and fled. He honestly didn't know what else to do.

He guesses now that there were places he could've gone to if he'd really meant to never face the thing he'd seen. He could've gone back to Metropolis, but he's still not ready for that now so he'd've absolutely said he wasn't then. He could've headed somewhere else, anywhere else in the entire world, China, India, wandered the damn Antarctic if he'd felt inclined to do so, but it turned out he didn't feel inclined. He could've just left the manor and that would've been a start - it wasn't like anyone would've known his face in Gotham if he kept his head down, even without the glasses he didn't really need, though he guessed maybe Bruce had a pair somewhere down in the cave. Maybe he even had one of _his_ pairs and not just some leftover prop from an undercover job - heck, Clark figured if Bruce Wayne could get away unnoticed wearing a pair of glasses as a disguise, he probably could, too.

The fact was, however, that he didn't leave the manor. He went back to his room down the hallway from Bruce's and he closed the door and got back into bed and he told himself he couldn't still hear what they were doing and he told himself he wasn't listening to it even if he could. He told himself it was totally absurd - who in their right mind roleplayed rough sex with Superman? - and anyway, the suit looked nothing like the real one did, like his suit did, it was just an expensive Halloween costume. It wasn't like Bruce was thinking about him, so he wasn't thinking about Bruce. Not when he closed his eyes. Not as he tossed and turned. Definitely not as he shoved one hand down the front of the pyjamas he'd let Bruce lend him on the promise that he'd pay him back somehow and wrapped one hand around himself. He absolutely wasn't thinking about Bruce's mouth wrapped around him when he came. He wasn't thinking about the look in Bruce's eyes as they'd met his across the room.

In the morning, Clark watched the guy leave from his bedroom window like he was just watching the birds hunting breadcrumbs Alfred scattered on the lawn and when he got downstairs and went to grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen, Alfred told him he was a fitness model named Justin. He said it like this was a perfectly normal occurrence, or like maybe it had been before Clark had arrived to cramp Bruce's style. At breakfast, sitting at the table with a couple of slices of toast that he buttered so precisely it was like there was some kind of exam on the schedule, Bruce said nothing about it at all and so Clark didn't, either. They went on just like normal. They went on like nothing had happened. They both pretended Clark hadn't seen what he'd seen.

He tried to put it out of his mind. He'd been living there for almost three months by that point, since he'd woken up in the ground and somehow managed to limp his way over to Gotham - he'd found he'd been gone so long they'd had time to rebuild Wayne Manor, and he hadn't thought about Bruce like that before so he wasn't sure how he'd started to think of him like that then, either. Except he _was_ thinking of him that way and maybe he _had_ been thinking of him that way before, who knew how his brain worked and if the wires had gotten all crossed while he was pseudo-dead. All he could say for sure was breakfasts with Bruce had turned awkward after that and helping Bruce out in the cave at night had turned weird, and when he went to bed at night he was thinking about Bruce on his knees. He was thinking about a guy who almost looked like him with his cock in Bruce's mouth.

Justin came around again four nights later and Bruce took him straight up to his room, but Clark still knew that he was there. He could hear him from his room down the hall. He could hear him changing his clothes and then the ridiculous roleplay that came after that, how he burst in from the balcony like he'd flown himself up there and not just left the room and closed the door just to walk through it again with a dramatic flourish. Clark could hear everything they did - he could hear it when Justin shoved down his crappy costume pants and when he closed the cuffs around Bruce's wrists. He could hear the slick sound of lube and he knew exactly what had happened when he heard Bruce groan, the sound just slightly muffled by the pillow. He could picture it, how Bruce's hole would look stretched out around Justin's big cock, how he'd be pulling on the cuffs that chained him to the headboard; the squeak of the bed frame gave away the pace, so he could imagine the thrust of Justin's hips, too. He doesn't think the picture in his head was far from the reality.

He came when he heard Bruce come. Justin left twenty minutes later, and Clark tried very hard to get some sleep; he failed. 

It went on for weeks. Clark tried to pull his weight - Bruce refused repayment in cash for his hospitality and Clark was still officially dead anyway so money was an issue, but there was work for him to do on the Wayne estate and so he did it. He helped Alfred tame some of the manor's grounds during the daytime and then, at night, he usually helped out down in the cave. His eyes could catch more on the camera feeds than either Bruce's or Alfred's could, though it turned out he needed help to figure out what exactly it was he needed to look out for. It was different, being a member of Batman's support team instead of saving lives himself, but he figured as long as he couldn't even bring himself to tell his mom he was still alive, he really couldn't be ready for that. He'd get there in the end, he thought. His subconscious was just taking the most scenic route.

And then, after work, Bruce's friend might turn up or he might not. But either way, Clark was falling asleep at night thinking about what would happen if _he_ went to Bruce's room instead. He was thinking about what might happen if _Superman_ turned up, except he knew that Justin wasn't playing him; the fantasy was a monster. The fantasy wasn't the least bit human and Bruce seemed to enjoy it, even if the suit just wasn't right. Somehow, that got to him.

He was in the cave one night when it struck him: his suit was down there, tucked away neatly in a clear plastic bag in a closet near Bruce's batsuits. The _real_ suit was down there. He'd known it was there before that, sure, but it had never seemed completely relevant before; he'd looked at it in terms of being ready to leave and go back to what he'd been before what had happened in Metropolis, but he figured putting on the suit didn't have to mean that. Putting on the suit could mean something a whole lot different or else mean nothing at all. He thought about it in bed that night when he heard Justin arrive. He thought about it the next couple of days while Bruce was away with the League. He thought about it all day in the garden with Alfred where he didn't have to pretend he wasn't strong because Alfred knew he was. Bruce knew who he was, too, and _what_ he was, and Clark had told him exactly what it was that he could do. 

Bruce had to know he could hear him every time he did it. It wasn't like he'd ever tried to be particularly discreet. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Clark walk in on him the way he had that night. 

Five nights later, he went down to the cave after Bruce had gone to bed. He pulled the suit from the closet; the plastic bag wasn't much of a match for him as he tore it open. He stripped. He put on the suit. He picked up a length of chain just for good measure and he flew out of the cave, straight out through the entrance Bruce used with the car. and the rest of his fleet of bat-vehicles He flew up to the manor, his first real flight in months, almost the first time that he'd left the house. He landed on Bruce's balcony and he flung open the doors and he stepped inside, and his eyes were already glowing as he did so. Bruce scrambled naked from the bed. 

He knows sometimes it goes too far and that night was one of them. Bruce looked like he had no idea how to respond to what was happening despite his usual crisp calm, but Clark figured he'd understand it soon enough; he had Bruce's hands behind his back and the chain wound around Bruce's wrists before he could even move, and all it took was a moment's heat followed by a moment's cold to weld them tight in place without burning him. Then he took him by the throat. Bruce's face was lit up by the glow of Clark's eyes, shadows in the eerie orange. 

There were questions Clark would have liked to ask him - was this was Bruce wanted? was this what he'd been imagining? - but he didn't say a word. He pushed him down instead, shoved him and sent him down onto his knees on the hardwood floor, and Bruce didn't struggle. He didn't tell him _no_. He didn't ask him what the hell it was he thought he was doing or why he was doing it or any of those things. He just looked up at him from his knees, the long end of the welded chain hanging down with a metallic thunk against the floor, and Clark knew exactly what he needed to do next because he'd thought about it often enough. He ran his fingers through Bruce's hair and he twisted them into it. He freed his cock from his authentic suit and let the hard length of it bob in the air there in front of Bruce's mouth. He nudged his lips with the tip of it, and then he thrust inside. 

He could feel Bruce swallowing around the tip of his cock. He held him there and he rocked his hips, he thrust his hips, he fucked Bruce's mouth, and Bruce took it, he sucked, he swallowed, oh God, he did it _enthusiastically_. And when Clark was done, when his hips had bucked and he'd finished, Bruce looked up at him and met Clark's glowing eyes. Clark just tore the chain from around Bruce's wrists, the links broken up and scattered, and he dropped it as his feet as he headed for the balcony door. He left Bruce on his knees, his cheeks still flushed as red as the length of his erect cock was. 

They didn't talk about it in the morning, and then Bruce went out wearing a well-tailored suit. They didn't talk about it at dinner, and then Bruce went out in a very different kind of suit. And then Bruce was back and Bruce was in his room and there was Clark again, breaking in, chaining him up, pushing him down. He fucked him bent over the dressing table, knocking over a bottle of overpriced cologne and his motions almost hard enough to splinter the wood - a squeeze of lube and he was pushing inside him, stretching him, getting in as deep as he could go, Bruce hot and tight and lube-slicked around him with his hands gripping hard at Bruce's hips. He came in him, shoved deep, his bare thighs pushed up against the back of Bruce's. Then he pulled off the chains and pulled out and left him there again. 

They didn't talk about it in the morning, or at dinner, or that night, but Clark went back to Bruce's room again; he chained him to the bed and he fucked him face-down on top of the mattress. They didn't talk about it the day after, either, or the day after that, when Clark had him against the wall or bent over the balcony railing in a rain shower, on his knees in his bed or on the floor. And in the daytime things were normal, absolutely normal, maybe close to _too_ normal, the two of them making polite small talk over food, discussing Bruce's cases, the occasional real conversation where Clark almost felt like he and Bruce were something more than just acquaintances. He couldn't be sure but he almost wished they were. He would've liked to've thought the extended stay in Wayne Manor meant that, too.

They didn't talk about it. Sometimes Bruce struggled against the chains and bruised his wrists and Clark could feel himself react the next day when he saw those bruises all welled up on Bruce's skin; that night he gripped just a fraction too tight and the next day Bruce was wearing bruises like Clark's fingers, and that just drove Clark crazy. Bruce rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows and there they were, and all Clark wanted to do was put his hands there and show him that he knew his fingers fit the shape almost exactly. Sometimes Bruce put his own fingers there and Clark started to wonder what it would be like to feel Bruce's hands on him. Bruce's mouth. Bruce's warm, bare skin.

They didn't talk about it in the morning, and then Bruce went down to the cave to do some work. They didn't talk about it at dinner, either, and then Bruce went out to work some more. He came back in injured - the worst Clark had seen him then - and Clark helped him undress, helped him strip naked out of every part of the suit that made him Batman right down to his skin so that Alfred could patch him up. Clark hung back, watching the needle as Alfred stitched. He's never been squeamish. He's thankful for that.

"Do you want to try?" Bruce asked. 

Alfred clucked his tongue. "No offence to Mr. Kent but you're not donating your body to science just yet," he said, and Clark smiled wryly but he was thinking about it. Somehow the notion that Bruce would have let him sew him back up almost meant more than how he let him chain him up or fuck him - he knew then like he knows now that it's easier for Bruce to make-believe he's just playing a part if he's Bruce Wayne and not the bat, and there were pieces of the batsuit scattered on the worktops. Bruce trusted him. He trusted him enough to let him help him dress. He trusted him enough to let him help him back upstairs. He trusted him to get him into bed. He _trusted_ him. He still does.

"Do you want me to stay?" Clark asked, and he hated how he sounded hesitant. 

"I don't have a concussion," Bruce replied, from flat on his back. 

Clark smiled tightly. "I didn't say you had," he said, and Bruce looked up at him warily, consideringly. 

"No chains?" Bruce said, carefully, his tone measured, and Clark's stomach gave a lurch of sick excitement. He hated it. Sometimes he wishes he really were the monster Bruce expected him to be back when they met, if it would mean he wouldn't think the things he thinks sometimes, like he was screwing things up, like Bruce would toss him out if he said the wrong thing. The problem was, he'd had his fill of polite conversation with bruises like his hands around Bruce's wrists. 

"Not tonight," Clark replied, brows raised like maybe he was nonchalant and logical, though it was obvious that Bruce saw through it. "I don't want to burst your stitches." 

Bruce watched him for a long, quiet moment. In the end, Bruce nodded; in the end, Clark stayed. In the morning, Bruce finally put his hands on him, and when Clark pushed inside him, slowly, face to face, his eyes were blue. He could have almost been human, he thought, not a monster in sight.

Now, months later, Bruce is on his knees and Clark's eyes are glowing red. Bruce looks perfectly impassive but Clark can hear the way his pulse is quickening. His own is, too. It turns out Kryptonian physiology's not all that different to humans'; he and Bruce have compared every inch of their bodies and they're superficially the same, you couldn't tell the difference if Clark's not leaping tall buildings in a single bound. You couldn't tell the difference if he's not wearing his suit and his eyes don't look red, except Bruce knows the difference - after all, he hasn't seen Justin the model in months. Clark likes to think Bruce doesn't need the imitation anymore. Clark is the real thing.

Bruce knows the difference. And Clark knows when he's ready to be Superman again, Batman and the League will be waiting for him, but for now he's content enough to play the part of Bruce Wayne's private monster that somehow always finds him in the night. He figures maybe he'll find himself along the way.

Clark didn't go looking for this. He wouldn't've had the first clue where to start, even if he'd wanted to. 

He didn't go looking for this but as he twists his fingers tight in Bruce's hair, as his eyes shine hot and Bruce's cock stands up hard, he's glad he found it anyway.


End file.
